and don’t forget we have to go back for my brains
That was the last sentence of an email from Mum yesterday.
The week before christmas we met at a local pub for lunch. It was a pretty dodgy place but it was close to where she’d been shopping and not far from my place. Most people I know wouldn’t go there but they’re probably a bit snobbish and we’re both country girls so used to a bit of rough and tumble when it comes to Pubs. It’d been in the news the week prior because there was a riot there and when we arrived there was a group of young guys sitting in the car park drinking out of bottles in brown paper bags and there was this huge bull mastiff or something sitting under a table in the beer garden chewing on a bone. Okay then, I thought, not the kind of place you wear your best dress.
But the bistro was fine and the staff were great and Mum decided that she’d have the liver – or lambs fry as they politely call it in restaurants. She enjoyed it and when I went to pay she told me to tell the chef that it (and the gravy with it) was very good. I grew up on a sheep farm where we killed our own so my mother knows her offal and I ate my fair share of it over my younger years. When Dad killed a sheep we’d all stand there with bowls ready to collect all the bits and pieces.
So I got to talking to the waitress about offal; my mothers love of it and the waitresses dislike of dealing with it. She was telling me that she used to work somewhere and one of her jobs was boiling and peeling brains and how she couldn’t stand the smell of them.
We’d left and were walking to the cars when the girl ran out to us and said that Chef said next time we were coming in to ring him the day before and he’d get some brains in and cook them specially for Mum. So that was pretty cool of him.
Now she’s like a zombie at the thought of a brain feast.